


The Adventure of the Travelling Correspondent

by mightymads



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle
Genre: Case Fic, Dr. Watson's diaries, Established Relationship, M/M, Retirementlock, Schmoop, Slice of Life, set in 1924
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-11-25
Updated: 2018-11-25
Packaged: 2019-08-29 07:29:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16739704
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mightymads/pseuds/mightymads
Summary: Bizarre incidents happen rarely upon the quiet and respectable South Downs. When a newcomer causes a disturbance, it turns out to be an occasion worthy of Sherlock Holmes’s attention and Dr. Watson’s chronicles.





	The Adventure of the Travelling Correspondent

**Author's Note:**

  * For [orchid314](https://archiveofourown.org/users/orchid314/gifts).



> With many, many thanks to my beta **Recently Folded**. I'm so grateful for all your hard work and insightful suggestions to make this story better and also for your advice on medical matters!
> 
> Big thanks to **Small Hobbit** for Britpicking and to **Tassynicole** for more help with the medical aspects!

_December 22nd._ —We have returned from our spontaneous vacation, and although we enjoyed it, there’s no better place than home. Mrs. Stevens saw to everything: the house is spotless, our cellar is full of supplies, cold meals should be enough for a few days, and she even had a beautiful Christmas tree delivered. I’ll thank her when she resumes her work next week, already in 1925. As for the tree, we’ll decorate it as soon as we recover our senses from the utter mayhem the traffic was on our way back. Perhaps that was the only downside of our outing to Paris during this season. Holmes is in his armchair, surrounded by heaps of newspapers—we haven’t touched any for the whole fortnight we’ve been away. In the meantime, I take up my pen to give a sketch of our journey home, for it was not uneventful.

Yesterday, our luggage sent to the station, we had several hours before our departure and, roaming through Paris, found ourselves at an art exhibition. It was a retrospective of Chagall, whose name is fairly unknown, but his works were captivating. There was a painting which especially arrested my attention. A couple soared in the sky, and below—a town with its everyday life, seemingly bleak yet rather peculiar.

“Holmes,” I cried. “Look at this.”

He came up, regarded the picture for a while, then put on his glasses and examined it minutely, as he used to treat material evidence.

“Hum! Details are quite amusing,” was his verdict.

“Yes, but that’s not what I mean.”

“What then?”

“Remember what you told me once? ‘If we could fly out of that window hand in hand, hover over this great city, gently remove the roofs, and peep in at the queer things which are going on...’”

“Oh John,” Sherlock murmured, his eyes twinkling.

“Did you seriously think that I called you only because of the green goat and the defecating man?”

“But it was amusing.”

Well, my Holmes is incorrigible. As we were admiring the painting further, a sturdy, handsome, fashionably dressed gentleman of about forty approached us.

“Excuse me,” he said in a careful, unobtrusive manner, “would you be Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. John Watson?”

“Yes,” Holmes answered, hiding his discomfort at being recognised.

He has never liked awestruck gasps from strangers and requests for autographs, even more so in retirement. For him it is a nuisance, and every time it happens, he tries to bow out of it quickly. Over the years I have got accustomed to interacting with the public, being grateful for their unwavering enthusiasm, but I often feel as awkward and embarrassed as I first did some three decades ago when an agreement with _The Strand Magazine_ turned out to be life-changing.

“Fancy the odds of meeting you here, sirs, of all places. It’s such a delight,” the man said, shaking our hands in turn with zeal. “Dr. Watson, I’ve been reading your stories ever since I was a boy.”

Holmes and I exchanged glances—in spite of acknowledging the passage of time, one is not eager to be reminded of it so flatly.

“Thank you. You are most kind.” I inclined my head.

“And you, Mr. Holmes, inspired me to observe people and things,” the man went on happily. “By the way, I’m now en route to the parts where you live, to visit my aunt. Perhaps you even have an idea who I am.”

“Apart from the facts that you were brought up in England but since then have been travelling far and wide; that you are a journalist and a mountaineer working for the National Geographic Society; and have recently arrived to Paris after a long assignment, I have no idea who you are,” Holmes replied amiably.

“Fantastic!” the man whispered. At that moment his bearing of an adult had disappeared, and his strong, clear-cut, sun-burnt features were alight with childlike wonder. “But how... my accent probably gives me away...”

“Quite,” Holmes said with a polite smile. “Now if you will excuse us. Dr. Watson and I have an appointment.”

“Oh, I’m terribly sorry for detaining you,” the man said, flustered. “But I haven’t introduced myself properly. My name is Edwin Mallory. I am a nephew of Dame Elizabeth Stackhurst, although she doesn’t care for being called Dame. Thank you so much for chatting with me, sirs.”

We were surprised, for our good friend had indeed mentioned having a nephew somewhere abroad, and no one, bar her inner circle, knew of Mrs. Stackhurst’s chagrin about her title. She is, like most of us upon the Downs, a rather private person.

“Then perhaps we shall meet in Sussex yet, Mr. Mallory. Good day,” Holmes said, putting his hand on my elbow as we headed to the exit.

“Might he be the real nephew, though?” I asked, once we were outside.

“Doesn’t really matter.” Holmes shrugged his shoulders. “He’s still a journalist.”

“I suppose our appointment is dinner at the nearest cafe.”

“Precisely.”

We spent the remaining time at our leisurely dinner and in the evening boarded our train at Gare du Nord. Relieved to have escaped the hustle and bustle of the platform, we were heading to our compartment when we ran into our recent acquaintance.

“I’m not stalking you for an interview, sirs,” Mallory assured us humorously, making way for us in the narrow corridor.

“What a coincidence,” Holmes said as we were passing him by.

“Mrs. Stackhurst must be looking forward to the family reunion,” I added, to soften Holmes’s somewhat terse reply.

“So do I. There are only two of us left,” Mallory said, a tinge of wistfulness in his voice.

I nodded my acknowledgement and followed Holmes into our compartment.

“How about inviting him for a nightcap in the restaurant car?” I suggested, having closed the door behind myself.

“John,” Holmes muttered with some exasperation.

He put his valise under the berth and started to undress. Due to the lateness of the hour the beds were already made up.

“Oh come, we’ll find out more about him than he about us.”

“Even if he is what he claims to be, let’s keep to ourselves. Good fences make good neighbours.”

“What happened to ‘It is my business to know things?’” I said teasingly.

“I retired.”

“And you’re not a bit intrigued.”

“You, my dear, are getting extremely nosy with age,” Holmes said, amusement dancing in his eyes.

“Years of your pernicious influence, I suppose,” I retorted in kind.

There was nothing else to do but prepare myself for sleep as well. We would have to rise early, and it would be better to have had a good rest. It used to be easy to wake up at the crack of dawn or in the middle of the night and stay alert if my duties as a doctor or assisting Holmes so required, but things change.

I was still very drowsy in the morning as we crossed the Channel and so paid little attention to other passengers on the ferry. Had London been our destination after disembarking at Dover, it would have been possible to have slept some more in a cosy first-class carriage. In actuality, we were to while away time until the arrival of the Eastbourne train. A small public house near the station was acceptable for the purpose.

Holmes was brisk and fresh whereas I trudged beside him like a somnambulist. Eventually, coffee and scrambled eggs with bacon lured me out of my slumbers, and I could notice not only the food but also our surroundings. Amongst the patrons of the pub there were several other people who had come from Paris with us: by the fire, a recently married couple back from their honeymoon; in the quiet corner across the room, a middle-aged clergyman; and talking to the landlord in the bar, Edwin Mallory. He glanced in our direction, and we exchanged greetings with him.

“Would you like to join us?” I asked.

Holmes’s foot shoved mine under the table, but it was too late.

“I would be honoured,” Mallory replied, tipping his head politely.

To my inward relief, Holmes refrained from expressing any sign of displeasure and welcomed him genially, for it would be indeed discourteous to have done otherwise.

“Planning to stay at Southerton for a while, I see,” Holmes said as Mallory took a seat.

“Again you are right, Mr. Holmes. I don’t know how you do it, but yes, I shall be there for three weeks or so. Such good memories of that old house.”

“It’s simplicity itself. The sheer number of your suitcases suggests a prolonged visit.”

“Ah, my suitcases—you must have seen my ordeal earlier today. Well, I brought some curios from my expeditions to entertain Aunt Beth. If you don’t mind, sir, how did you identify me as a mountaineer and all the rest before I even told you my name?”

Mallory’s eagerness was disarming. Somehow, this weather-beaten, seasoned fellow managed to be boyishly ingenuous.

“You have a strong grip, especially that of your fingers, Mr. Mallory, and the sort of suntan one can obtain only at high altitudes,” Holmes replied. “You are still adjusting to wearing your new suit in the latest Parisian style, having got accustomed to simpler, less restraining clothes. And as for the National Geographic Society, you were discussing your article rather animatedly with your French colleague before approaching us.”

“Good God, I feel like I’m in one of the stories,” Mallory blurted out and then contained himself with an effort. “Please forgive me. And of course you can be sure that I won’t use it for a sensational article.”

“That’s considerate of you,” Holmes remarked.

“How long have you been away from Britain, Mr. Mallory?” I asked, steering the conversation back to our new acquaintance.

“This time? Ever since the war ended.” A shadow passed over Mallory’s open and expressive face. “I served in the same regiment with Harold Stackhurst, my cousin, and saw at the front enough of things one doesn’t like to dwell on...

“Anyway, after the war, I couldn’t really find myself. Resuming my career at the _Daily Telegraph_ didn’t give me peace of mind, my marriage fell apart—nothing was holding me in England when my Harvard friends offered me a job of a travelling correspondent.”

“Did it help?” Holmes asked.

“It turned out to be my vocation.” Mallory nodded with a smile. “Six years flew by. Aunt Beth has been writing me for ages, insisting that I should come while she’s still with us. It’s also an opportunity to meet in person the two kind ladies who take care of her. She mentioned some time ago that she invited two friends to move in with her so that she didn’t feel lonely.”

“Holmes and I are well acquainted with them. Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds are lovely people,” I said.

“I have read Mrs. Reynolds’s novels. They are ingeniously written if somewhat difficult to believe. But she is very talented,” Mallory replied.

“Mrs. Reynolds will become a household name, mark my words. She has a knack for a good mystery.”

“Speaking of which, your two latest stories, _The Three Garridebs_ and _The Illustrious Client_ seem to be companion pieces. You and Mr. Holmes being injured respectively—it must have been very trying.”

Holmes and I looked at each other. Holmes had been affected by my being shot far more than I. And in turn, I would never forget the terror at the news of the assault and the image of him in bloodied bandages.

“One would rather be injured than see it happen to somebody one holds dear,” I said.

“Indeed.” Mallory fell silent for a moment but then continued briskly, “Your lifelong friendship is beautiful. You are having your own Christmas reunion, aren’t you?”

“No, we are just going home,” Holmes replied.

“Oh,” Mallory said, his brow drawn in confusion. “ _Oh!_ Dr. Watson, you joined Mr. Holmes in Sussex after all? Isn’t that wonderful! It has always seemed rather sad that your ways parted, and now I’m so glad to hear that's not the case any longer.”

The whistle of the arriving train spared me the necessity of replying. Our fellow traveller excused himself and hurried off to ensure the safe boarding of his extensive luggage. We followed at our ease a little later. During our walk and while we were settling down in our compartment, Holmes was clearly contemplating something. Finally, he leaned back in his seat and laughed.

“What is it, Sherlock?” I asked.

“People actually believe this estrangement charade.”

“Well, they even try to count how many times I married.”

“Just once,” Sherlock said under his breath, touching my mother’s ring on his left little finger.

“Some day the true story may be told.” I sat down next to him and glanced at the ring on my own hand—the ring he had received from the royal family of Holland. Such is our lot. I cannot wear it where it belongs either: the finger is correct, but the hand is not.

“What do you make of this Mallory fellow?”

“He seems to be quite nice and relatively guileless.”

“‘Seems’ is the right word. He may not be that simple. _Nous verrons_.”

We had a good, refreshing nap on our way to Eastbourne and disembarked ready for our drive home. Amongst the crowd on the platform, Mrs. Stackhurst, alight with joy, was hugging her nephew and introducing him to the ever glamourous Natalie Dale.

I still find it novel to see women wearing trouser suits as their regular clothes. One would sooner take Miss Dale for a cinema diva than for a scientist, but who’s to say a lady can’t be both, especially these days and with her talents? She hadn’t been one of Mycroft’s best agents for nothing.

Unaware of her past, Mallory seemed impressed nonetheless, as anyone would be in his place. Mrs. Stackhurst spotted us and waved in her energetic manner. She expressed her pleasure that we had already met her Edwin and invited us for dinner the following evening, eager to hear our impressions of the trip.

Our car waited for us where we had left it, under the shed outside the station, clean and shiny. The station guards had kindly looked after it. We put our sparse belongings on the backseat, Holmes took his place beside me, and we set off, enjoying clear, sunny, windless weather—a rarity in December. It was pleasant to feel the steering wheel in my hands again. About ten minutes later, a black sleek convertible flashed past us, the low rumble of its powerful engine as noble as that of a panther. Miss Dale drove expertly, being a winner of many races, and her passengers seemed pleased with the ride.

 

 _December 24th._ —I have put the goose into the oven and now can do some writing. Yesterday, preparing to attend the dinner party at Southerton, we had the argument which arises every single time in such cases.

“Sherlock, you can’t go like this,” I said, putting on my jacket.

“Why not? It’s merely a casual gathering with neighbours,” he replied airily.

“Out of respect to the host.”

“Rest assured, John, that she won’t mind.”

“How will it look? You’re in your day clothes, and I’m in my evening wear,” I persisted.

“Stop fussing.” He adjusted my white tie.

“You used to like to dress up too.”

“Not anymore.”

Although his tone was light, I knew it was better to leave it at that. To tell the truth, we both would rather stay at home: resting after the trip would have been preferable. But Mrs. Stackhurst is a dear and rather a matriarch to our local community, so we couldn’t let her down.

At Southerton we received a warm welcome and were ushered into the drawing-room which was barely recognisable. There was a large exhibition of Persian pottery, Japanese ivory figures, intricately ornamented African tribal shields, and other artefacts from every corner of the world.

“A superb collection, Mrs. Stackhurst,” Holmes said.

“Edwin presented it all to The Gables and has promised to read several lectures on ethnography and geography next month,” Mrs. Stackhurst remarked, shining with pride. She looked regal in her evening attire, a descendant of an old aristocratic family to her fingertips.

“We even rescheduled our own classes so that the students could get the most of it,” Mrs. Reynolds added. Doe-eyed and slender, she was like a faerie in her shimmering chiffon gown.

“What a piece of luck for our school,” Miss Dale murmured languidly, and for some reason there seemed to be a tinge of sarcasm in her tone. Her dress was quite daring, but she was resplendent.

“You all are so devoted to its development that your enthusiasm is inspiring. First you opened a female department and then classes for children who require special care. It’s amazing how The Gables has expanded over the past few years.” Mallory sighed. “Harry would have been happy.”

I could see by Holmes’s face that he too thought fondly of our dear friend. Harold Stackhurst had founded The Gables to make education accessible for those who could not afford it, and the school had been the mission of his life.

“Thank you, Edwin,” Mrs. Stackhurst said, smiling. “We are doing what we can to preserve my son’s legacy.”

The dinner was excellent, and Mallory’s vivid tales of his assignments from the Arabian Desert and arctic glaciers to the Grand Canyon and the Amazon rainforest made it even more so. Holmes seemed to have reconsidered his policy towards at least this particular journalist who showed no intention of trying to worm out any details of the great detective’s retirement. Instead, Mallory entertained everyone present with his own anecdotes. During the evening his gaze often lingered on Ada Reynolds. It caused her some awkwardness, although she listened to him with rapt attention attention—attention that Miss Dale certainly didn't appreciate.

“Since we are discussing travels, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, what took you to Paris at this time of year? Assuming it’s not a confidential matter, of course,” she asked.

“No, not at all,” Holmes replied. “We sometimes make such spur-of-the-moment decisions. One evening we were sitting in our armchairs by the fire, talking about usual domestic things which were rather boring. Dr. Watson mentioned that it would be nice to get away for a while. I seized the idea, and get away we did, the very next day.”

“If we could only be so quick off the mark! With Nat it always involves meticulous planning,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

She gave Miss Dale such a tender look that it was clear that Miss Dale’s misgivings about her interest in Mallory were completely ungrounded.

“Oh come, you yourself are busy writing when you’re not teaching,” Miss Dale said, smiling.

“By the way, Mr. Holmes and I enjoyed your recent novel very much,” I said to Mrs. Reynolds.

“Dr. Watson read it aloud,” Holmes added.

“Thank you.” Mrs. Reynolds replied, flushing. “Mr. Holmes, of course you knew who the murderer was pretty early on, didn’t you?”

“Well, I did have a theory by the middle of the book. It proved to be correct,” Holmes said almost apologetically.

“I begged him not to tell me, and he wrote his reasoning on a slip of paper,” I said. “On my part, I was in the dark until the very end. It was delightful.”

Mrs. Reynolds beamed, and her charming blush deepened.

“We are looking forward to your two new stories being published in the _Strand_ , sir,” she said.

“Mrs. Reynolds, I have _Collier’s_ with me,” Mallory exclaimed.

“Oh, those Americans. Why do they get to publish your stories earlier, Dr. Watson?” Mrs. Stackhurst grumbled.

“I thought it would help to strengthen the friendship between our countries,” I said.

“They also pay more,” Holmes remarked in a stage whisper.

“That, too.” I shrugged my shoulders innocently, kicking his foot under the table.

It only contributed to the merry atmosphere of the evening, and Holmes hadn’t really embarrassed me.

“Americans are pragmatic people,” Mallory said knowingly. “If I may, Doctor, have you a practice here since your moving to Sussex or have you devoted yourself entirely to writing?”

“I help out occasionally when Dr. Wingate from the village is busy,” I replied.

“Dr. Watson keeps up with newest achievements in medicine,” Mrs. Stackhurst said. “The way you treated Sam Joyce’s younger boy when he had been stung by a wasp and started to suffocate—just one injection worked like a charm!”

“Hypersensitivity reactions are not uncommon, especially here in the country, where bees and wasps are plentiful,” I had to elaborate. “One should be ready to counter them with all the means available.”

“Then we can try out without fear the delicacies Mr. Mallory has brought from abroad,” Miss Dale said.

Tea, a special Chinese blend, and desserts were served. There was an abundance of Turkish delight, nougat, dates, marmalade... it was an embarrassment of riches, and I felt like a schoolboy in a confectionery. Holmes chuckled, watching me in such a predicament. I was not alone in it, however: Mrs. Stackhurst was as enraptured as I, having a notorious sweet tooth herself.

“And this might be of interest to you, Mr. Holmes,” Mallory said, gesturing at a small honey jar. “I found this wild honey in the Himalayas during the climb. The bees were huge, and their nest sat on a precipitous cliff. The honey is somewhat bitter, so one cannot eat much, but I like it in small amounts.”

“I have to admit that I am more acquainted with European varieties,” Holmes replied thoughtfully, sampling the honey. “Definitely monofloral, which is unusual in itself because as a rule many plants blossom at the same time in a given area.”

Our opinions were divided: Holmes and Mrs. Reynolds considered the wild honey too piquant and refused more than a single taste whereas to the rest of us it was quite palatable. Then Mrs. Reynolds went out for a cigarette, followed at once by Mallory. Miss Dale’s face was like marble, not a single muscle moving. She fetched her cigarette holder from the drawing room, put her stole around her shoulders, and headed to the terrace to the rescue of her companion.

“Edwin is hopelessly smitten with Ada,” Mrs. Stackhurst commented in a whisper. “He has asked me a million questions about her since yesterday and was overjoyed upon learning that she is divorced too.”

“I commiserate with Miss Dale,” Holmes said.

“Nat has to be patient, yes. Ada is keeping him at arm’s length, but, alas, it has no effect.”

“Then Mrs. Reynolds would better tell him outright that she is not interested,” I said.

“Speaking from experience, Doctor?” Mrs. Stackhurst gave me a sly look and then sighed. “Ah, Edwin, poor thing. He seems to have no luck recently. The expedition to Sumatra which he had organised at his own expense was a complete failure and left him in debt. I suppose, the brat finally came to visit his old aunt more because of the money issue than anything else, although he hasn’t brought it up yet. In any case, I’m happy he’s here.”

At that moment Miss Dale’s indignant voice was heard from the terrace.

“How dare you, Mr. Mallory?”

“Nat, please, don’t,” Mrs. Reynolds cajoled her. “Let’s return to the drawing-room, shall we?”

The French window opened, and Miss Dale strutted in, her face a cold mask. She was followed by a distressed Mrs. Reynolds and Mallory, who looked annoyed.

“Is everything all right?” Mrs. Stackhurst asked them.

“Quite,” Miss Dale muttered.

“Don’t worry, Elizabeth,” Mrs. Reynolds said nervously.

“It was but a small misunderstanding, Aunt Beth.” Mallory gave a suave smile to his aunt and then turned to us. “Gentlemen, how about playing billiards?”

We agreed to join him out of politeness. It was getting late, and after the match concluded, Holmes and I took our leave. The atmosphere in the house had become less tense, but we were glad to go home.

The night was starry and beautiful. While Sherlock drove, I could feel his warmth at my side. We had had our share of misunderstandings which, thankfully, were all water under the bridge. It may be maudlin beyond measure, but... just sitting close to him in the car made my heart flutter. We had lived a lifetime together, and the only thing I could ask Providence for was more time with him, that we be granted another ten or twenty years.

Soon we were back in our sitting-room, lounging on the settee as the fire cracked cheerfully in the grate.

“The travelling correspondent is making quite a ripple in our backwater, eh?” Sherlock stretched out his legs in front of him with a sigh of pleasure.

“Even though he is handsome, he doesn’t have any chance over Miss Dale, that’s for sure,” I replied.

“Amorous matters aside, what’s his game, apart from borrowing a certain sum? Why these lavish presents if he is in debt? Perhaps he also wants an alteration in his aunt’s will, for as far as I know, half of her fortune is intended for the school fund.”

“What if he is merely a kind soul?”

Sherlock smiled at me fondly and stroked my knee.

“My dear, you always see the good in people. But you’re probably right. I tend to look for ulterior motives even when there are none. Are you all right? Your eyes are shining. Sherry went to your head?”

His palm was warm on my knee, and my skin tingled with little electric sparks. Flickers of light and shadow were playing on his face, accenting his cheekbones and the strong line of his jaw. His scent enticed me, so familiar and beloved.

“I want you,” I murmured into his ear.

As we kissed deeply, it ignited him too. His arms slipped around me, and I pulled him into my lap, enjoying his weight on top of me. I undid his collar and slid my hands down to his fly—his answering heat was maddening; my fingers were suddenly clumsy and wouldn’t obey.

“I shall prepare myself,” Sherlock whispered between the kisses.

He gave me one more hurried kiss, and off he was to the bathroom. I headed upstairs, burning with anticipation. As the sound of running water carried across the hall, I imagined him naked, getting ready for me, and could barely refrain from self-gratification. At last he joined me in bed, wearing only his dressing gown which he quickly discarded. I sucked his hard prick, then entered him with my tongue and licked him loose, making him whimper, and then had him on his back until he was hoarse from moaning. We reached the crisis together, almost passing out at its peak, so overwhelming it was.

After, we lay with our limbs entwined, sharing the afterglow, completely spent.

This morning, as we sat at a late breakfast, we couldn’t look at each other without grinning like idiots. Sherlock fidgeted in his chair and yelped, giggling.

“What the deuce was that? You fucked me _frantically_ ,” he said.

“If you choose to be picturesque about it, my dear,” I replied, very pleased with myself.

“I’m merely stating the fact. It wasn’t love-making; it was wild, intense fucking. What’s gotten into you?”

“Nothing yet, but I wouldn’t mind.”

“Oh no, I don’t think so. After yesterday I doubt I’d be able to get it up quite that soon. I’m not thirty any longer, you know. Although neither are you...” He knit his brow and eyed me intently. “Have you taken any supplements perchance?”

“I beg your pardon?” I asked in a tone which was more affronted than I had intended.

“In Paris I noticed once that you were reading some magazine article about enhancing one’s... er... performance.”

“Out of curiosity, because it happened to be there.”

“And you weren’t tempted to experiment?” he teased.

“No indeed,” I said curtly, becoming nettled in earnest. “Yesterday’s _performance_ was entirely natural, thank you very much.”

“And different to usual, too.”

“Is it so difficult to believe that there’s still some fire in me?”

“John, I didn’t mean it that way.” He shook his head, absorbed in his musings. “But it just seemed odd.”

I decided to regard this as one of his antics, not taking it to heart. However, for the rest of the day, no matter what I do, this morning’s conversation hangs over me like a cloud. We had had an amazing night, and all he could say was that it was odd. It’s true that we usually love each other in a gentler manner. What of it? I may be seventy-two, but I am still quite able. Of course he didn’t mean to hurt me, yet his disbelief stings. I wish it were easy to put the whole thing out of my head for the sake of Christmas Eve.

 

 _Follow-up._ —Sherlock remained in a contemplative mood throughout the day, curled up in his armchair, a liquorice stick between his lips in lieu of his black clay pipe. I busied myself with the chores to avoid brooding, and we barely spoke, even though we cooked together for our festive dinner. When we were setting the table, it occurred to me that the only thing we had neglected was the Christmas tree, so I ascended to the attic, found the box with ornaments, and brought it downstairs. The task which was supposed to be joyful somehow had little appeal this year. Being offended by a trifle, a passing remark was silly of me, yet I couldn’t shake off the gloomy feeling.

Sherlock came up as I was untangling a piece of tinsel to help me with it. His deft fingers straightened out the glittering strands easily and in the process brushed my hands in fleeting caresses.

“John, did I upset you that much?” he ventured, after a few minutes of silence.

“No, no, of course not,” I tried to assure him in my cheeriest voice.

“You’ve been distant and too quiet. John, look at me,” Sherlock said with a sigh. “Darling, I’m sorry.”

He was so upset himself that I forgot my sulking at once.

“Oh Sherlock,” I said, hugging him. “There, we’re all right.”

“Good.” He beamed and kissed me.

We decorated our Christmas tree, engulfed in the scents of pine and tangerines. There was something magical about this annual ritual, as it always had been ever since we had moved to Sussex. In our younger days we hadn’t bothered ourselves much with mundane aspects of domesticity. Mrs. Hudson had maintained the comfort of our London sanctum, and only much later did we come to fully appreciate her efforts. Now our housekeeper is live-out, which occasionally makes us face the trouble of serving our own meals or washing dirty dishes. Like any trouble, these little challenges only brought us closer together.

“So... do you feel up to having some hanky-panky?” Sherlock nudged me playfully when we had finished and were admiring our handiwork.

“To be honest, not really.” I smirked. “Do you?”

“Not really. By Jove, I’m still sore.” He laughed and rubbed his backside.

His contented expression tickled me immensely. We had a merry dinner and agreed that our cooking skills, although limited and practiced infrequently, were not so bad after all. Then Sherlock went to the study and returned with a present.

“Let’s not wait until tomorrow,” he said. “Open it.”

“ _Jazz Masters_?” I asked, intrigued, having unwrapped a gramophone record.

We put the record on. It was a collection of wonderful, tenderest love songs, most of which I hadn’t heard before. Moved beyond words, I kissed him heartily. He held me tight, smiling into the kiss.

I then brought a present from my hiding place, and when he opened it, his eyes widened as he took from the box a dark blue two-piece swimsuit.

“Somewhat out of season, yes, but it was stunning on the mannequin in the store,” I explained bashfully. “Anyway, that abominable stripy thing has to be banished from your wardrobe.”

“I’m an old man, who cares?” He snorted.

“I do, but most importantly, you used to care,” I objected. “Try it on.”

He conceded only to oblige me. That would do; at least there was a slight chance it would work. Eight years passed since he had been wounded horridly in December of 1916. Such had been the cost of completing that mission. It may have ended the Great War for him and, as a consequence, for me, but the echoes of the war still held him in their clutches. Thankfully, he had made a full recovery and nightmares tortured him no longer. He wasn’t gaunt and frail anymore—far from it: a healthy lifestyle and regular exercise had done him a world of good. However, the lasting illness he had overcome left him self-conscious of his body, in spite of all my assurances.

He changed into the new swimsuit then and there. When he stood up, his stately posture impeccable, I couldn’t tear my eyes off him. Unlike the stripy one-piece which had hung loosely on him, the dark fabric followed the contours of his lithe, slender frame, accenting his muscles and the paleness of his skin. The sleeveless top revealed his arms while the close-fitting shorts hugged his buttocks snugly and exposed his long, toned legs.

“Good God, Sherlock,” I gasped and led him to the big mirror in the hall.

He regarded himself critically from head to foot, turned left, turned right, and then muttered, his eyebrow arched, “ _Ma foi, c’est très chic_.”

“Told you, you’re gorgeous, love.” I embraced him from behind as our gazes met in the mirror. “Are you still surprised I had such a massive cock-stand for you the other night?”

Sherlock blushed; a small, hesitant but truly happy smile touched his lips.

“No, wait, it has to be a proper _défilé de mode_ ,” he said.

Back in the sitting-room, Sherlock donned his dressing-gown, lowered it on his shoulders and sauntered to the music, mimicking Parisian models with the uncanny precision only he is capable of. We laughed until there were tears in our eyes. Then a slower melody began to play, marking the conclusion of the impromptu fashion show, and he approached me, as dignified as he would be in his best dress clothes.

“Will you honour me, sir?” he asked, offering his hand.

We danced and kissed and whispered soft nothings cheek to cheek while outside the window a ballroom’s worth of snowflakes swirled and swayed just like us.

 

 _December 25th._ —On Christmas morning we slept in. It’s one of our most favourite traditions. When we finally got up and looked out of the window, the view was dream-like. Our garden, trees and bushes, hills, and the valley far off—everything had turned into the white realm of snow.

It was impossible to stay indoors, so we visited the apiary to check on the beehives. We brushed off the snow and made sure the entrances weren’t blocked: as my Holmes said, proper ventilation was very important for the bees’ well-being. Then we had a long, invigorating ramble through the snow-laden valley and finally went back home with a good appetite. We had barely finished when the telephone rang.

At the other end of the line, Miss Dale, her usual equanimity gone, was agitated and shaken.

“Doctor, could you come over, please? It’s Elizabeth. She’s having a bad fit.”

“What caused it, Miss Dale?”

“I don’t know. We were drinking tea when suddenly she started to talk nonsense and hallucinate. Now she’s having trouble breathing!”

I grabbed my medical bag and together with Holmes drove to Southerton at once. In spite of the cold weather, the French window leading from the drawing-room to the terrace was wide open, and we entered through it.

Mrs. Stackhurst was in a half-seated position on the sofa, coughing, wheezing, and clutching her chest, her lips swollen, her complexion already blueish. My apprehension was confirmed: she had developed anaphylaxis.

Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds, both pallid, were keeping their friend propped up, in the hope that it would be easier for her to breathe. A hypodermic of adrenaline did its work—in a few moments her airway was open and her breathing became more regular. She reclined on the cushions and whispered weakly, “Harry, my dear Harry... he sent me back because it wasn’t my time yet.”

She was obviously still delirious and besides that looked nauseated. A wash basin was fetched just in time. Her arms were covered with a bright red rash, especially her left wrist on which she was wearing a heavy silver bracelet. Fearing the pressure of it would further irritate the skin, I took the bracelet off and set it on the side table by the sofa.

“The acute symptoms have subsided, but hospitalisation is absolutely necessary. Please call the ambulance from Eastbourne,” I said to Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds.

“We already have,” Miss Dale replied, adjusting the cushion under Mrs. Stackhurst’s head.

“Today is Christmas. God knows how much time it will take them to arrive.” Mrs. Reynolds sighed, wringing her hands.

Holmes brought Mrs. Stackhurst’s shawl from her chair, covered her with it, and closed the French window against the chill.

“Where is Mr. Mallory?” he asked.

“Went out for a walk,” Mrs. Reynolds said.

“Could you tell us from the very beginning what had happened before Mrs. Stackhurst felt unwell?” Holmes fixed his intent gaze on her.

“Nothing out of the ordinary at first,” Miss Dale said gravely. “We had breakfast, the four of us—our table is still as it was—and we all ate exactly the same plain food, no fancy delicacies from abroad. I cannot fathom what could be the reason of such a severe allergic reaction. Then Mr. Mallory mentioned that he made it a practice to walk after a meal for the benefit of his health. No one else was keen on the idea, so eventually he went alone. We continued to drink tea and chat until Elizabeth’s behaviour became very strange: she ignored Ada and me and began talking as if her late son were here. She said she had missed him and how good it was of him to visit her, asked whether he was all right beyond the veil and whether he had met Mr. Stackhurst the senior.”

“Nat and I tried to bring her to her senses,” Mrs. Reynolds said, her voice trembling. “But she choked mid-sentence—gasped for air! She looked about to collapse. We led her to the sofa. Nat opened the window for fresh air and ran to call you.”

Miss Dale rang the bell and instructed a worried maid to bring some water for Mrs. Reynolds. Mrs. Stackhurst’s condition remained stable; she was resting with her eyes closed, her pulse close to normal, her breathing shallow and rapid.

Holmes went to examine the table. He noted who had been sitting where, sniffed the cups, tasted the jam and the honey, and looked closely at the chairs and the carpet under them. However, this preliminary check seemed to have failed to give any substantive leads.

“What are you searching for, Mr. Holmes?” Miss Dale asked.

“Hallucinations and delirium are rather uncommon symptoms for an allergic reaction, aren’t they?” Holmes said, pressing his fingertips together and glancing at me.

“Yes, it’s an effect one would sooner expect from narcotics or toxic substances,” I said.

“Do you mean that Elizabeth was poisoned?” Mrs. Reynolds cried.

“Possibly. Take a blood sample for analysis, John.”

Sherlock walked over to Mrs. Stackhurst and lightly touched her rash-strewn left wrist.

“This is a curious piece of jewellery,” he said, picking up the silver bracelet she had been wearing.

“Elizabeth received it as a Christmas present from Mr. Mallory,” Miss Dale replied. “A Persian antique.”

The bracelet was a fine work of a silversmith of old; its ornaments were woven in an intricate, lace-like fashion, forming circles and encasing three large round ambers. The largest amber was in the centre. It was the brightest one, as if the very essence of sunlight had been caught and preserved as a stone.

Holmes, however, wasn’t interested in the aesthetic aspect—his sharp mind instantly perceived a practical side to the exquisite craftsmanship. With his forefinger, Holmes prodded at the setting of the central gem. It opened, revealing a secret compartment under it. Inside, there were remains of a white powder.

Miss Dale, as startled as Mrs. Reynolds, was about to say something when a sound of approaching steps came from the hall and Mallory entered the room, seeming to be in good spirits from his walk. But as soon as he saw Mrs. Stackhurst lying on the sofa, ghastly pale, his cheerful expression vanished.

“Great heavens,” he exclaimed, dashing to his aunt. “Aunt Beth! What happened?”

“You’d better let her rest. She is to be hospitalised,” I warned him.

“We believe that Mrs. Stackhurst was poisoned. Very likely by this,” Holmes said, showing Mallory the bracelet with its secret compartment open. “Where did you get it?”

“From a reliable antique dealer,” Mallory replied, staring blankly at Holmes. “He didn’t even mention it had such a receptacle. No, no, no, it just can’t be!”

“Quite a convenient accident for Elizabeth’s sole heir who is in financial difficulties,” Miss Dale said scathingly.

“Wait, are you accusing me of something?” Mallory bristled.

“I’m afraid the police have to be called in, Mr. Mallory,” Mrs. Reynolds said, her tone quiet but resolved. “What do you think, Mr. Holmes?”

“It would be rather hasty.” Holmes raised his eyebrow. “Let’s find out first what this substance is.”

“We will feel safer if the police are present,” Miss Dale said. “Ada, go call them.”

Holmes let out an irritated huff but didn’t argue.

“This is absurd,” Mallory mumbled, clutching his head.

While Mrs. Reynolds was telephoning the police station at the village, the ambulance arrived. I deemed Mrs. Stackhurst’s condition stable enough to endure the transportation to Eastbourne. Mrs. Reynolds and I drove after the ambulance van whereas Holmes, Miss Dale, and Mallory stayed behind to wait for the constable.

In the hospital my colleagues agreed with the diagnosis of poisoning and an acute allergic reaction as its side-effect. To our relief, Mrs. Stackhurst responded well to further treatment, and it was decided to keep her under observation there for at least overnight.

It was already evening by the time Mrs. Reynolds and I left the hospital. The day had been a trying one, and Mrs. Reynolds kindly made a detour to drop me off at home. She didn’t linger for tea, saying that she should collect at Southerton some belongings Mrs. Stackhurst needed and take them to her as soon as possible.

The fire in the grate of the sitting-room was burning brightly, and I could hear sounds from Holmes’s laboratory. Knowing him so well, I didn’t even need to employ his methods to be certain that upon his coming home he had proceeded with chemical tests and had failed to eat anything since morning. I put the kettle on and laid out some cold supper.

“How is Mrs. Stackhurst?” Holmes asked, emerging from his domain of retorts, Bunsen burners, and Petri dishes.

As we sat at our belated meal, I told him everything, and in turn he filled me in on further developments in Southerton.

“The village constable, that young Jenkins fellow, was terribly excited by the opportunity to prove himself, so of course he arrested Mallory. Mallory’s room was also searched, but nothing incriminating was found.”

“He is either a very cunning rascal and a good actor or he really has nothing to do with it,” I said, perplexed.

“It’s too early to draw any conclusions. We must have the test results,” Holmes replied.

Predictably, after supper he resumed his work in the laboratory—when he is onto something, it’s useless to remind him about rest. As for me, I am going to bed, for I am quite done in. It has been one of the strangest Christmases we have ever had.

 

 _December 26th._ —When I woke up, Sherlock’s half of the bed was empty. It hadn’t been slept in at all. The house was quiet as I walked towards the laboratory, and no sound indicated that he was still working. But he was there. He has been accustomed since youth to overcoming the needs of his body when the working fit is upon him. However, this time his body had overcome him: my darling was fast asleep in his chair, leaning forward onto his desk.

“Sherlock, Sherlock.” I shook him gently by the shoulder.

He stirred, blinked, and looked up at me blearily.

“Wha—? Good Lord, it’s morning.” He groaned, straightening himself up. “Ow, my neck, my back. Oh, old age is no joy!”

“Let me,” I said, starting to massage his sore spots. “I hope your vigil was worth it.”

“The tests showed nothing. Blood samples, food samples,” he muttered as he glanced into the microscope, “yes, and tea samples—negative. Whatever harmed Mrs. Stackhurst, it can’t be detected this way.”

“But the powder from the bracelet?”

“Common sleeping draught.”

“Well, that’s good news for Mallory,” I said, making circles with my thumb at the base of Sherlock’s skull. “It proves his innocence.”

“Mmm, right there, thank you.” Sherlock sighed blissfully.

“Or he was clever enough to use something undetectable, and his only mistake was dosage.”

“Or maybe it wasn’t a mistake. There is another person in that household who certainly knows how not to leave traces.”

I was so astonished that I paused for a moment, and Sherlock uttered a displeased grunt.

“Miss Dale?” I asked, resuming the massage. “And her motive would be?”

“Framing Mallory. If no substantial evidence is found, he will eventually be released, but this incident will be enough to make him unwelcome in Southerton and drive him away from Mrs. Reynolds. Crossing such a woman as Miss Dale can be very dangerous.”

“Because of her expertise in intelligence? You have it too. In fact, you were the best, but surely you wouldn’t poison a friend to get rid of your partner’s suitor.”

“Indeed not.” Sherlock smirked.

“What would you do?”

“Suffer in silence. You did depict a plausible scenario in _The Sign of Four_.”

“That was in the past century. Let it go, will you?” I said with fond exasperation.

After we had eaten breakfast, there was a less pleasant but quite necessary task to be taken care of: washing the pile of dishes which had accumulated over the previous two days. Neither of us was particularly enthusiastic about it. Holmes said he would prefer to run the tests again to ensure there was no mistake and suggested that the dishes could wait for Mrs. Stevens until next Friday. But my resolve was firm. Having such an unsanitary muddle under our roof was out of the question. In spite of his distaste for cleaning in general and doing the dishes in particular, Holmes wouldn’t let me face this daunting chore alone. He heaved a heavy sigh, rolled up his sleeves, and set to it.

An hour later, fatigued, but with a sense of accomplishment, we were resting in our armchairs by the fire when the telephone rang. Holmes picked it up and mostly listened—this one-sided conversation clearly concerned Mallory, so I was unable to focus on the novel in my hands for straining my ears to hear what was being said.

“A curious fact has come to light, in addition to Mallory’s debts from the failed expedition,” Holmes announced at last, having hung up the receiver. “Five months ago he made a deal with his friend Gerald Thompson, a successful businessman. Mallory was on the verge of investing the remains of his money into _Illustrated Daily News_ and becoming a partner in the ownership of this newspaper with rising popularity. However, he withdrew at the last moment when the stocks went up and the prices increased.”

“It’s certainly a reason to facilitate coming into an inheritance,” I replied. “The Little Bird dug this out for you, didn’t he?”

“Yes, for old time’s sake.”

“He is as quick as he used to be during the war.”

“Yes, but this information still isn’t direct evidence,” Holmes said, drawing up his knees, his gaze fixed vacantly upon the fire in the grate.

It was better not to distract him from thinking everything over, so I resumed reading my book, at a loss as to whether we were any closer to the solution.

 

 _December 27th._ —Holmes did run the tests again and contemplated matters until late in the evening, but at least he went to bed and slept comfortably. I was rather glad about it.

In the morning he rummaged through all the bookcases in the house for everything there was on the topic of poisons and then paced about the sitting-room, occasionally scraping upon his violin. Mrs. Stackhurst telephoned and said she had returned to Southerton in a restored state of health. Naturally, I went to call on her. Sherlock sent his best regards and remained buried in his researches.

Mrs. Stackhurst looked well, if still a bit pale. She was very worried about her nephew who had been transferred to the custody of the Sussex Constabulary since the case was now being handled by their Inspector Bardle.

Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds expressed their happiness to have Mrs. Stackhurst back, yet it seemed as though there had been some sort of discord between the two. As we were having tea, I told them about the results of Holmes’s tests but withheld the information about Mallory’s cancelled deal.

“Oh, it’s such a relief,” Mrs. Stackhurst said. “I’m sure it was just an accident. Most likely something that I ate didn’t agree with me. That’s all.”

“It's certainly true that something didn’t agree with you, Elizabeth. The question is, for what reason?” Miss Dale said. “We all know that this estate is to become Mallory’s property after your passing. Then all his financial problems will be solved.”

“Nat, dear, Edwin is simply not that kind of a man.” Mrs. Stackhurst shook her head.

“You mentioned yourself that after the war he became different and hardly even visited you. Why has he turned up now out of the blue?” Miss Dale insisted.

Mrs. Stackhurst’s face saddened. If her only relative were guilty of such treachery, it would be a tremendous blow for her.

“That’s enough, Nat,” Mrs. Reynolds said, frowning. “We’ve already discussed it. Mr. Mallory may have reasons for his reticence that are unknown to us. We cannot condemn him until there is actual irrefutable evidence against him.”

“Don’t distress yourself by becoming upset before we know there’s a reason, Mrs. Stackhurst,” I said.

“Ah, and I can’t eat any sweets to cheer up.” She flung up her hands, glancing at the desserts. “Now that I’m on the strictest diet.”

“Please bear with it for a while, Mrs. Stackhurst,” I replied sympathetically. “It’s a necessary step to avoid another onset of allergy. And have faith in Holmes—he will find the explanation for it all.”

“Of course he will.” With a visible effort, Mrs. Stackhurst smiled.

Driving home, I couldn’t help wondering if Holmes were right about Miss Dale. She was firmly set against Mallory and had tried to persuade Mrs. Stackhurst of his guilt. What if Miss Dale had really called upon her special skills to eliminate her rival? It would be abhorrent, yet it didn’t seem entirely impossible anymore. My heart was pounding, and my whole body was tingling. I had a pressing need to be with Sherlock.

He was cleaning the path in front of our house from the snow. The sight of him doing physical work, his cheeks flushed in the frosty air, made my breath catch.

“Detaching yourself from the problem?” I asked, coming up to him.

“Thought maybe an increased circulation would stimulate my brain.” He unbent, thrust the shovel into a pile of snow, and rested his hands on the handle. “Mrs. Stackhurst has recovered, I trust?”

“Yes, and she doesn’t believe her nephew is at fault. But Miss Dale is vehement.”

“I have a feeling that I’m missing something, that there’s something I have overlooked.”

Sherlock took off his cape and carded his fingers through his hair. He was irresistible. The next moment I was all over him, having nearly knocked him off his feet. He let out a surprised groan as I kissed and kissed him.

We found our way inside the house blindly and in the hall divested each other of our outer garments, throwing them on the floor. He undid my collar and nuzzled my neck—it sent shivers down my spine. I pinned him to the wall, slid my hand between his legs, and palmed his groin through the fabric.

“Take me, Sherlock,” I whispered. “Please, darling, I crave you.”

“Oh, John, what you are doing to me,” he breathed.

Exchanging sloppy kisses, we stumbled into the kitchen, for there was vaseline in the medicine chest and we were too impatient to ascend to the bedroom. We unbuttoned each other’s trousers. Seeing his hardening cock made me weak in the knees, all but shaking with desire. Sherlock prepared me and then I was in his lap, straddling his hips. He was finally inside me. The chair we were sitting on creaked menacingly but somehow managed not to break. Our rhythm was getting faster and harder, and at the height of our pleasure I was gasping for breath, my chest hurting a little. It was as if we were spellbound. We hadn’t lost our minds so utterly in a long time.

Sherlock rested his damp forehead against my cheek, panting heavily. Such intense exertion had been taxing for him as well.

Winded, tired but glowing we finally made it to the bedroom, took off the remaining clothes, and sprawled on the bed under the blanket.

“You are as slender as ever,” I murmured, trailing lazy caresses across Sherlock’s side. “While I... I became rather round.”

“And I love it, for there’s more to hug,” Sherlock said as he moved closer so that we lay curled together.

“Why, you’ve turned into such a romantic.”

“Years of your pernicious influence, I suppose.” We laughed, and he stroked my cheek. “How are you feeling? You seemed to be in pain when we climaxed.”

“Don’t worry, I’m more than all right,” I said with a luxurious sigh, some of my parts pleasantly sore. “Now I do have to admit, though, that it _was_ odd.”

“Ha! You see?” Sherlock raised himself upon his elbow. “Try to remember carefully exactly what you did before getting all hot and bothered. Maybe your sudden bursts of passion have a common cause?”

“Well...” In my mind I went over the events of both days, comparing. “I drank tea just an hour ago and also at the dinner party just before we left.”

“And so did Mrs. Stackhurst on Christmas morning. Tea...” he muttered.

“But everyone drank it. You tested it! Besides, today it wasn’t even the tea Mallory brought from China.”

“Irrelevant,” Sherlock exclaimed, his face brightening suddenly.

He jumped out of the bed, threw on his dressing-gown, and dashed out of the room. Fortunately, some things never change. In a few moments he was turning the study upside down—rustling of papers here and there, muffled thuds of books being discarded, frustrated curses—and then followed a triumphant cry. The clatter of his steps travelled to the sitting-room.

“Hello, Bardle? This is Holmes speaking. Would it be possible to have an interview with Mallory in the presence of all witnesses? ... At the residence of his aunt, it is critical. ... Yes, Watson and I will come to fetch you both shortly.”

Upon hearing that I started to get dressed. Meanwhile Sherlock called Mrs. Stackhurst and arranged matters with her.

“What did you find?” I asked when he had run back to the bedroom to put on his clothes.

“What I should have from the very beginning,” he replied, stamping his foot. “It has been right before my eyes all the time!”

As we set out, Holmes took his valise with him and asked me to bring along my medical bag. Inspector Bardle met us at the police station, as intrigued by the intentions behind Holmes’s request as I was. We were shown to the back of the station where Mallory was being kept in one of the cells. His clothes were rumpled, and he had dark circles under his eyes from lack of sleep.

“Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson,” Mallory cried, springing to his feet. “How is Aunt Beth? What’s going on? They aren’t telling me anything.”

“She is better,” Holmes said. “We need you to come with us and see her. It may throw some light upon the incident.”

“Oh, thank Heaven she’s better! I’ve been so worried. I swear I didn’t do it, and the scoundrel who did is in for it.”

Inspector Bardle kept a close watch on Mallory as we motored to Southerton, and so did Holmes, although he appeared outwardly unconcerned.

At last everyone was gathered once again in the drawing-room. If looks could kill, Mallory would have been turned into stone—with such contempt Miss Dale regarded him. Mrs. Reynolds stood protectively beside Mrs. Stackhurst’s armchair while Mrs. Stackhurst visibly summoned all her dignity to remain calm.

“Tea has been served. Excellent,” Holmes muttered and rubbed his hands.

Indeed, the table was set in exactly the same way it had been on Christmas morning.

“Edwin, if you needed money, why didn’t you just tell me so?” Mrs. Stackhurst asked, gazing searchingly at Mallory.

“I don’t need money, Aunt Beth.” Mallory shook his head. “I have enough for a living. I would never do you any harm.”

“Can you prove it, Mr. Mallory?” Mrs. Reynolds asked, crossing her arms over her chest.

“You have my word as a gentleman,” Mallory said firmly.

“Oh please.” Miss Dale scoffed.

“Let’s proceed in a more relaxed manner,” Holmes suggested. “Sit down, Mr. Mallory, and let me pour you some tea.”

Mallory, Bardle, and the ladies stared at Holmes as though he had two heads.

“Surely the circumstances are rather unsuitable for tea, Mr. Holmes,” Mallory replied.

“But I insist. Please, humour me. Add some more honey; it will help you. There you are.

“Now to the point. It became known to me that five months ago you were about to buy _Illustrated Daily News_ together with your good friend. A rise in stock prices hindered your plans, for you hadn’t sufficient means anymore. How would you comment on that?”

“Nothing escapes you, Mr. Holmes. Just as one would expect,” Mallory said with a weary sigh. “Very well. I suppose these facts look black against me, but I assure you, money was not the reason. I would have borrowed the remaining sum from Thomson had I not changed my mind.

“At first it seemed like a good investment, and my friend Thomson developed an entire business plan for our work. It meant settling down in the city and being stuck in the office at a desk, day after day, year after year. Such a life is not for me. The price increase was a convenient excuse, really.

“And as for the estate, leave it to The Gables, Aunt Beth, and may the children study here in the future.” Mallory rubbed his face, wiping away beads of sweat which had formed on his forehead. “You may not believe me, of course. Do you think I would poison Harry’s mother? For money? Harry saved me in the war but perished himself. For the past six years it kept me from your side. I couldn’t... couldn't look you in the eyes...”

He reeled and clutched the tablecloth, teaspoons and china clinking. Mrs. Stackhurst gasped in horror while Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds darted to him to prevent him from falling.

“Oh, the stench of mustard and roses...” Mallory cried out, starting to slur his words. “I hate roses... and mustard... Harry, no... keep your gas mask...”

He fainted and sagged in the arms of Miss Dale and Mrs. Reynolds like a rag doll. Holmes and Bardle helped the ladies as together they carried Mallory to the sofa.

Smelling salts gradually revived him, and since his breathing was all right, it wasn’t dangerous to give him charcoal tablets. In half an hour, residual weakness notwithstanding, Mallory seemed himself again.

“What was that all about, Mr. Holmes?” Mrs. Stackhurst asked, and everyone’s eyes shifted to my companion.

“You said the tea would help me,” Mallory mumbled quietly.

“And it did,” Holmes replied. “You are cleared of all charges, Mr. Mallory. Am I not right, Bardle?”

“Yes, Mr. Holmes. But who is the culprit then?”

“Lack of knowledge,” Holmes said, with the air of a professor addressing his class. “Both fell prey to it, in the same way as the soldiers of Xenophon and Pompey in antiquity who encountered swarms of extraordinary, large bees as they travelled in a strange land. Upon partaking of tempting honeycombs they were soon raving like madmen and collapsing senseless.”

From his valise Holmes took out a hefty green reference book titled _Beekeeping Around the World_ , opened it to a bookmarked page, and read aloud the following passage:         

> “The most toxic species of Rhododendron grow in Nepal and regions of Turkey close the Black Sea. Honey produced from the pollen and nectar of these plants is often referred to as “mad honey”. The most common symptoms of mad honey intoxication are: dizziness, fainting, nausea, excessive perspiration, hallucinations, and bradycardia; in severe cases it may cause a heart attack. 

“Mr. Mallory’s tale of his journey to the Himalayas should have been enough to identify the root of the problem at once,” he continued, “especially in the light of Mrs. Stackhurst’s partiality to sweets. Of course she must have overindulged herself in honey that morning.”

“I’m afraid I did, Mr. Holmes,” Mrs. Stackhurst said ruefully.

“And you proved to be hypersensitive to that dosage, hence rashes and respiratory distress. The tests failed to show anything because the level of toxin in blood is beyond detectable by the currently available means. I’ve been sluggish in mind. It took me days to link the events, but Dr. Watson’s assistance was invaluable.”

Sherlock gave me an impish glance, and I lowered my eyes, lest colour should rush to my cheeks.

“And I thought such things happened only in novels,” Mrs. Reynolds whispered.

“At least there was no malice behind your actions, Mallory,” Miss Dale said with some commiseration.

“God, I’m so sorry. I had no idea,” Mallory said, appalled.

“I know, Edwin, I know.” Mrs. Stackhurst patted him on the shoulder. “It was quite an adventure.”

 

 _Follow-up._ —At home that evening, Sherlock and I sat in our armchairs, sipping mulled wine after a fine supper.

“You could’ve tested the honey on mice,” I remarked.

“I could have.” Sherlock nodded. “But I needed to see how Mallory would react. Had he known of its toxic properties, surely he would never have put the whole two teaspoons into his cup. Thus he is a decent man—your intuition hadn’t failed you, my dear John. While the method was a bit drastic, it was safe enough given that you were there.”

“But what did it have to do with our intimate... with my sudden bursts of passion?”

“Oh, mad honey is also believed to be a powerful aphrodisiac, although I considered the claim to be complete rubbish until recently.” He grinned as we reached for each other’s hands.

“It was a curious experience, yet I think we do very well on our own,” I said.

“Agreed.”


End file.
